Constant Lovers Read online

  ‘That’s what the servants said at Godlove’s, too. No one had a bad word to say about her, but no one seemed to really know her. She hadn’t gone out of her way to make friends.’

  ‘She’s from Roundhay, and the alewife didn’t say anyone had seen her, so she must still be missing. We’ve had no more reports of bodies.’

  ‘Do you think she’s involved?’

  The Constable shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘For a start, we need to find the maid,’ Nottingham said. ‘Do we even know her surname?’

  ‘Taylor.’

  ‘We have to try and find her. She’s the one who was closest to Sarah Godlove. She might well be the key to all this.’ He marked the item on one finger. ‘We also need to know where Sarah went every week. That’s a mystery and it might well be important.’ He pushed a second finger back, then a third. ‘And we should try and find out the truth about this marriage.’

  ‘How?’ Sedgwick asked.

  ‘We ask questions. It’s the only thing we can do. You go out to Roundhay and talk to the maid’s family. Who knows, they might have had word from her—’

  ‘If she’s still alive.’

  The Constable acknowledged the words. He knew full well she could easily be as dead as her mistress, the body hidden away somewhere.

  ‘—or she might have told them things.’ He sighed. ‘Any information is better than we have right now. Anything you can find at all. Ask round the village. Sarah grew up there, people will have known her. You know what to do. Take the knife with you, too. See if anyone recognizes it.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ He stood up and stretched, grabbing the weapon from the drawer.

  ‘Do you want to ride up there?’

  Sedgwick made a face. ‘After being in that cart yesterday, I’ll walk.’

  The problem, Nottingham decided, was that he was dealing with so many unknowns. The people were just names, he didn’t understand their lives. Neither Godlove nor the Gibtons had any association with Leeds, and Leeds was what was familiar to him, what he understood in his heart and his soul. Outside the city he was just another stranger. What he needed was someone who might know something about these folk, someone to guide him a little.

  He retied his stock and set off down Briggate. Carters filled the road, cursing their horses and each other, while a farmer tried to drive a few cattle between the wagons, heading to sell them to the butchers in the Shambles.

  A short way up from the bridge he stopped by a house, its shutters spread wide and the sashes raised. Glancing through the window he could see the printing press, its brass gleaming, and beyond it a man at a desk. His head was lowered, the quill in his hand scratching rapidly at a piece of paper. The Constable opened the door and walked in.

  ‘Mr Nottingham.’ The man stood, extending a hand whose skin was discoloured by dark stains. James Lister was small and round, all beaming eyes and bulging belly, with an open, jovial face. He’d only taken over the Leeds Mercury in January after the terrible winter had claimed the life of his employer, John Hirst. But in his life he’d forgotten more about Leeds and the area around it than most people had ever known. Where the merchants dealt in cloth, fact and rumour were his stock-in-trade. ‘What can I do for you?’

  The room smelt of ink, a deep, exotic scent that seemed to permeate the walls and the floor. Bundles of paper were stacked in a corner, ready for the next edition, and stained wooden boxes of type lined the wall. The Constable had been here before, and the mechanics of making a newspaper always amazed him.

  ‘I’m hoping you might have some information.’

  Lister raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled slyly. ‘And here I thought you were the one who knew everything, Constable. Sit down.’ He gestured at the extra seat beside the desk.

  ‘You heard about the body found at Kirkstall Abbey on Saturday?’ Nottingham began.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you know who she was?’

  ‘Not yet. Do you know?’ Lister asked eagerly, reaching for his quill.

  ‘Her name was Sarah Godlove. Her maiden name was Gibton.’

  Lister sat back and let out a long breath. ‘I remember when they married last year. I wrote something about it, I’m sure. I couldn’t have ignored that.’

  ‘What do you know about Godlove and Baron Gibton?’

  The man rubbed his chin. ‘Where do you want me to start? Godlove’s a rich man. His family owned a little land for generations. They did quite well as farmers, but it was his father who really made the difference.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the Constable asked him.

  Lister smiled widely. ‘He started buying up small farms that weren’t doing well. Judicious purchases, too. He must have been a clever man. By the time anyone realized what he was doing, he must have owned most of the area between Horsforth and Bradford.’

  ‘What about the present Mr Godlove?’

  ‘He’s not the man his father was; at least, that’s what everyone says,’ Lister reported gleefully. ‘He runs everything smoothly enough, but there’s no fire about him. His ambition, or so I was told,’ he confided, ‘is to be part of the gentry. He wanted to be rich and respectable.’

  ‘And the marriage brought him that?’

  ‘In name, at least.’ He held up a warning finger, relishing the chance to gossip. ‘The Gibtons aren’t exactly the front rank of nobility.’

  ‘He’s a baron.’

  ‘Ah, but a baron is very low on the scale, Mr Nottingham,’ Lister said dismissively. ‘Even a viscount is higher, and they’re almost three a penny. But the Gibtons committed a cardinal sin in the eyes of the gentry – they lost most of their money.’

  ‘The great-grandfather lost it. At least, that’s what Gibton told me.’

  Lister raised his eyebrows. ‘Very candid of him. It’s true enough, though. From what I’ve heard, the man should never have been let out anywhere at all. He’d wager on anything and everything and usually lose. Of course, he was drunk most of the time, which probably accounts for it. I suppose the family’s cursed him ever since. There they were, couldn’t even afford to live with the best society and all because of him. There was a little money, of course, they were hardly on the parish, but it wasn’t the luxury they’d once enjoyed.’

  ‘And now they seem to have money again.’

  ‘I was getting to that. Patience, Constable, please,’ he teased. He held out his hands, palms up, and raised the right one. ‘So here we have a man with plenty of money who truly wants to be part of the aristocracy. He’s not going to manage that himself, so he needs to marry into it. The only trouble is that, apart from his wealth, there’s not much about him. You’ve met him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nottingham said.

  ‘He’s not a man who leaves a lasting impression, is he? Let’s be kind and leave it at that.’ Lister winked playfully and raised the other palm. ‘On the other hand there’s a family with a title that’s desperate – and I do mean desperate – for money. They have one real asset, which is a pretty daughter of marriageable age, and they’ve been preparing her since she was a baby. If they’d had more girls they’d probably have been rubbing their hands in glee. The only thing missing is a dowry. That means no one with a title is ever going to come near her, and they know it.’

  Slowly he brought his hands together. ‘A perfect match, at least for Godlove and the baron.’

  ‘So he paid for her?’

  ‘Yes, he did. A bride price, if you like, although no one’s going to call it that, of course. It’s far too crude a term, but it’s what it amounts to. Young Sarah was sold off like good stock – good breeding stock. Godlove is suddenly part of the nobility, even if it’s just by association, and the Gibtons have real money for the first time in God knows how long.’

  ‘What about Sarah?’

  ‘She certainly wouldn’t want for anything with Godlove, of course. An easy life, although a dull one, I’m sure, stuck out in Ho
rsforth with the sheep for your best friends. Not that anyone would have consulted her, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘You know how these things work. She’s just an asset, a piece of property to be traded.’

  ‘Her parents have done well out of it.’

  ‘My understanding is that it was all Lady Gibton’s work. She drove a bargain that would impress a horse trader. Did you meet her?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky.’ He shivered theatrically. ‘Awful doesn’t even begin to describe her. Just make sure you’re never around when she loses her temper. I saw it happen once at an assembly. Everyone was getting as far away from her as possible. The serving girls were in tears. It was very ugly.’ He paused. ‘Is any of this useful?’

  ‘Everything’s useful at the moment,’ the Constable answered with a small smile. ‘It’s all far outside my circle. And outside the city. I’m impressed you know so much.’

  Lister bowed his head. ‘You never know when something will come in useful,’ he explained. ‘It must be the same for you.’

  ‘More or less,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘Still, if you ever want a change of employment, I can use someone who gathers this much information.’

  The man patted his paunch contentedly. ‘Not for me. I like the quiet life. All I have to worry about is people threatening legal actions against me.’ He cocked his head. ‘Are you really looking for someone?’

  ‘I am.’ This murder had shown him how tightly they were stretched.

  ‘I should send my oldest boy down to see you, then.’

  ‘You don’t want him here?’

  ‘I’d love to have him here,’ Lister complained. ‘He could take it all over in time. But it doesn’t interest him.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted sadly. ‘I’m not sure he does, come to that.’

  ‘Working for me means long hours. The pay is poor, too.’

  Lister chuckled. ‘The money’s poor for everything in Leeds, unless you’re in cloth.’ His face turned serious. ‘He’s a good lad, Mr Nottingham. Reads and writes well, a good thinker, does what he’s told – unless it’s me telling him, of course,’ he added ruefully.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Almost eighteen. He was an apprentice last year, but only lasted three months.’ He frowned. ‘That was good money poured away for nothing. Then I tried him here and he didn’t care for it. His mother doesn’t know what to do with him and neither do I.’

  ‘Send him to see me if he’s interested,’ the Constable said. He couldn’t be any worse than some of the people who’d come hoping for the job.

  ‘And just imagine,’ Lister added, eyes twinkling, ‘he’d have access to all his father’s gossip.’

  Nottingham laughed and stood up. ‘Tell him to come to the jail.’

  ‘I’ll be printing something about Sarah Godlove’s killing. Murder most cruel.’

  The Constable turned and stared. ‘Murder’s never anything else, Mr Lister.’

  Seven

  Sedgwick never felt comfortable away from the city. Born and raised in Leeds, the quiet of the countryside was eerie to him. It took an hour of steady striding out to reach Roundhay village, a collection of ten cottages where the road made a turn. At least the Taylors wouldn’t be hard to find.

  A woman was working in the garden of the first house, down on her hands and knees, sleeves rolled up high as she pulled scrubby weeds away from carrot tops. To the side he could see mounds for the potatoes, and peas strung against the wall. She hadn’t heard him approach, and jerked her head up sharply as he coughed.

  ‘Morning,’ he said with an easy smile.

  ‘Morning,’ she replied warily, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked to be in her late forties, hair tucked tidily beneath a cap. The heat had put a shine on her skin and he waited as she wiped her forearm across her forehead.

  ‘You’ll have a good crop this year,’ Sedgwick said affably.

  ‘Hope so. The more we grow, the less we buy.’ The woman stared at him, then asked, ‘Can I do owt for you?’

  ‘I’m looking for the Taylors.’

  She stood, pushing herself up with strong arms then smoothing down the dress. Her knuckles were red from work, and he saw that two of the fingers on her right hand were swollen and misshapen.

  ‘I’m Catherine Taylor,’ she told him, walking to the drystone wall that separated them. ‘What do you need?’ There was deep suspicion in her voice.

  ‘I’m John Sedgwick. I’m the deputy Constable of Leeds.’

  ‘Oh aye, and what brings you out here to see me, then? My husband’s out in the fields over yon.’ She tilted her head to the west. ‘Her from the alehouse said a Constable had been out round here, too.’

  ‘It’s about your daughter. Anne.’

  ‘Our Annie?’ Taylor looked confused, then smiled. ‘Nay, love, but you’ve got that wrong. She’s been with Sarah Godlove – Gibton as was – for nigh on ten year now.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, watching as the edges of fear began to show in her face. ‘Can we talk away from the road?’

  After a moment’s hesitation, she agreed. ‘Aye, come on in. I’ve a fresh stoup of ale if you’re thirsty.’

  ‘I could do with that,’ Sedgwick admitted. ‘It’s a long walk out here when it’s warm.’

  He followed her into the house. There was a stool and two wooden chairs on the flagstones, an old, discoloured rug made from scraps of fabric between them, in front of the empty hearth. A table sat up against a wall, its wooden top scrubbed, a bowl of berries sitting on top under the window.

  She brought him a wooden mug and he took a drink, feeling the liquid lubricate his dry throat.

  ‘It’s good, is that,’ he said, taking another gulp.

  Catherine Taylor sat down and gestured to the other seat. ‘Now, what’s all this about our Annie, then?’

  ‘It’s also about Mrs Godlove,’ he began, emptying the cup and placing it on the floor.

  ‘She married that rich man from Horsforth way. Wanted to keep Annie with her. And her parents got all that money not long before, too.’

  He could tell she was talking just to delay the news. She urgently wanted to hear it and yet it terrified her.

  ‘Sarah Godlove’s dead,’ he told her. ‘Someone murdered her last Saturday.’

  ‘What?’ Her hand came up to her mouth.

  ‘She was coming over to Roundhay, but she never arrived. She had Anne with her, but no one’s seen your daughter since.’

  ‘Annie?’ She didn’t understand. ‘Annie?’

  ‘Has she been here lately, Mrs Taylor? Have you seen her?’

  The woman shook her head dumbly, in shock.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sedgwick said. ‘We don’t know where she is and we need to find her. She must know what happened to her mistress.’

  ‘She’s been with that Sarah since she was fourteen. She loves her. You’re not saying she killed her?’

  ‘No.’ Sedgwick smiled kindly. ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘Do you think she’s dead?’ Catherine asked bluntly.

  ‘We don’t know,’ was the best he could offer her. And it was true, he thought. They really did have no idea at all. ‘I was hoping she’d come here.’

  ‘No.’ There was emptiness in her eyes.

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘A month ago, mebbe? Aye, four week ago last Saturday. She stayed over and we went to church together.’

  ‘The servants at Godlove’s told me that Sarah and your daughter would go off one day each week. Do you know where they went?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. She doesn’t say much about what they do, or her duties or owt like that.’ She stopped herself suddenly, as if suddenly realizing all those days could now be past, a sorrowful, vanished history. ‘Please, tell me, do you think Annie’s dead?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ he answered her honestly. ‘But if she comes here, we need to talk to her.’
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br />   ‘She’s never been in any trouble, never done owt wrong.’ Catherine Taylor was rubbing her hands together as if they were cold. ‘She’s a good lass, mister.’

  ‘I’m sure she is. Look, there could be plenty of good reasons no one’s seen her,’ Sedgwick tried to reassure her. ‘Don’t go thinking the worst yet.’

  She looked at him, snatching at the hope, brittle as life, in his words.

  ‘Does she have any friends in the village? Anyone apart from you and your husband she sees when she comes home?’

  The matter-of-fact question seemed to give her strength.

  ‘Aye, there’s Maggie Blenkinsop. Well, Maggie Archer as was. She’s the same age as our Annie and they were allus together when they were lasses.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Right across the road. She’ll be there because I know her babby’s been ill. Can’t do much when that happens.’

  Sedgwick stood up, thanking her for the ale.

  ‘Try not to worry,’ he said, although he knew the words were pointless. He’d planted the thought and it would grow like a weed. ‘One last thing.’ He produced the knife that had murdered Sarah. ‘Have you ever seen this?’

  ‘No,’ she answered after staring hard at it. ‘Is that . . .?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was at the door when she spoke again.

  ‘Tell me summat, mister.’

  He halted and turned back, stooping so his head didn’t catch the lintel.

  ‘When you told them about Sarah, did his Lordship and his wife ask about our Annie?’

  ‘I wasn’t the one who told them. But from what I heard they didn’t even ask that much about their daughter.’

  Outside, the sunlight seemed too bright and he blinked his eyes to adjust. All he’d managed to learn was that Anne hadn’t come back here, and the price of that knowledge was her parents in torment.

  He crossed the road and knocked on the door of the small cottage. It looked uncared-for, unloved. There were vegetables in the garden but the weeds had taken proper hold, a few slates were missing from the roof, and the old limewash was heavily stained. From inside he could hear a baby howling and another young voice shouting loudly.